IV

East Broadway was the Fifth Avenue of the East Side. A wide street

lined, not with tall tenements like the other streets, but with moderate

sized brick houses with steep roofs and big chimneys. Nothing grand

about them, but solid looking. One family to a house. In these houses

lived the smart guys who lived directly off the poor boobs of the East

Side: that is to say: doctors, lawyers, politicians, rabbis and

prosperous storekeepers. Many of these guys were able to buy up the

up-town blokes several times over, it was said, but they made out they

lived simple and bragged about being East-Siders; it was good for

business. They were smart guys all right, but Joe had no intention of

stopping at East Broadway.

He was on his way to report to a lawyer who had hired him to secure

evidence against a man, whose wife wanted to get a divorce. Having

extended the scope of his operations, Joe had been able to procure

himself a whole suit with long pants; also new shoes and a cap. He wore

a white celluloid collar which he cleaned with a rag every morning. But

he was already dissatisfied with the effect; his suit was beginning to

look crummy, because he had no way of getting it cleaned and pressed. He

wanted two suits.

The nights were cold now, and the people had retired indoors. While he

was still some way off, therefore, Joe’s attention was attracted by a

little group gathered below one of the old-fashioned stoops. From the

way the people on the sidewalk were bending over, he perceived that

something was the matter; and hastened forward. Sitting on the bottom

step he beheld a funny-looking little woman, her knees as high as her

chest, her skirts drawn up high enough to reveal a pair of new button

shoes of soft leather, which toed in like a little girl’s. She was

tenderly feeling of her ankle. Not at all a grand person, yet Joe

instantly perceived she was of the up-town world. What a chance! he

thought, energetically shouldering aside the women of the neighborhood

who were bending over her. They fell back muttering: “Fresh!”

“Are yez hurted, lady?” Joe enquired, making his voice purr.

She lifted a pair of big, foggy grey eyes. “My ankle,” she murmured, “I

put my foot in a crack, and twisted it badly. . . . I don’t know. . . .

I’m afraid it’s sprained!”

“Send for the ambylance,” said a voice.

“Oh, no! no!” said the little woman like a scared child. “I want to go

home!”

“Sure!” said Joe. “What you want is a cab.”

“Oh, yes!” she said. “Can one get a cab in this neighborhood?”

“I can git you one,” said Joe. “Fella I know. Just around the corner.

You wait here.”

He ran around to McArdel’s livery stable in Division street, and gave

the order. In three minutes he was back again. The crowd had increased

in numbers; he bored his way through it as a matter of right. “S’all

right, ma’am. Cab ’ll be here d’rectly.”

She looked up at him half grateful, half afraid of the bold-faced boy.

Joe faced the crowd truculently, his eyes darting from face to face to

discover if anybody was inclined to dispute his claim to the woman. Just

let them try it, that was all! “Get back, can’t yeh!” he cried roughly.

“Can’t yeh give the lady air?”

Out of the corners of his eyes he sized her up. He was excited. What a

chance! What a chance! He put aside his errand to the lawyer. He felt a

burning desire to learn her, to master the secret of her nature, to

envelope her, to turn her to his own uses. She looked easy, with that

foggy glance and the childlike droop to the corners of her mouth; but

she was of a world that was strange to him; he must make no mistakes. He

had not missed the fact that she was half afraid of him; and he set

himself to subdue his masterful air before her, and to butter his

grating voice.

“Yer all right, Lady. I’ll see yeh troo!”

He cuffed aside the small boys, who came pushing between the legs of the

adults to have a look.

Meanwhile he registered every detail of her appearance. She was about

fifty years old, but her face was very little wrinkled, and her color

was fresh. She looked as if she had been preserved under a thin film of

paraffine; even her eyes. There was a strained look in her eyes. She’s

scared now; you can’t get her right, thought Joe. Obviously an old maid;

likes the soapy stuff, he thought. She wore a long, close-fitting coat

of dark green, having many little capes, each edged with grey fur; and a

small black hat shaped like a shell clinging to her head.

The cab came rattling and banging around the corner, and the old horse

slid to a stand on his shaky legs. The crowd opened a way through for

the lady. She surveyed the rusty vehicle, the furry beast that drew it,

and the boozy driver on the box in unmixed alarm. The smell of the

outfit came clear across the sidewalk.

“S’all right! S’all right!” Joe repeated. “Of course the swellest

turnouts was already out, but I know this driver. He’s a safe

driver. . . . Stand up on your good leg, lady, and lean on me. . . .

Here you, take her other arm.”

Supported on either side, the lady hopped across the sidewalk on one

foot. Somehow they got her bundled in. Joe shouldered his helper to one

side. Keeping his hand on the handle of the door, he stuck his head

inside.

“Where to, Lady?”

“Nineteen West Eleventh street,” she said faintly.

Nineteen; that’s near Fifth avenue; thought Joe with satisfaction.

Repeating the number to the driver, he climbed nimbly after the lady,

and pulled the door to. The cab jerked into motion.

“Oh!” she gasped from her corner. “You needn’t have come!”

“S’all right,” said Joe. “Don’t cost no more for two than one. You need

me to help you out, see? The driver maybe can’t leave his horse stand.”

The old cab lurched and swayed. Talking was well-nigh impossible until

they turned into an asphalt paved street. Joe had seldom ridden in a

cab, but he had only a side glance of his mind for that experience. He

was preoccupied with the little lady, pressing herself into her corner.

Frightened, it seemed. He greatly desired to improve his opportunity,

but was afraid of queering himself. If he could only make her talk he

could get a line on her! Finally he ventured politely:

“You was a long way from home, lady.”

“Thursday nights I teach sewing to working girls in the White Door

Settlement,” she said nervously.

“Oh, I see,” said Joe. “Them settlement houses does a lot of good.”

No response. She looked obstinately out of the window.

However “Settlement” had given Joe his line. He had heard all about

those Christers who came down from up-town to lift up the poor. “On’y

wisht I could go to one,” he said mournfully. “I’m so darn ign’rant.”

She did not rise to it.

Joe persevered. “I got no time for it. I gotta work nights as well as

daytimes. . . .”

“What is your work?”

Joe smiled to himself. He had forced her to ask that. “Oh, I got a

regular job in the daytime. Nights I sell papers to help out. I got

heavy expenses. . . .” He left his sentence teasingly in the air.

“Expenses? A boy like you? . . . Huh? I suppose you mean you have to

help out at home?”

Joe felt assured now that he could handle her. He proceeded to spread

himself. “Oh, I ain’t got no regular home, like. I just sleep around

where I can get the cheapest bed. Summer nights I often sleep in the

park to save the price of a bed. I got a kid brother, you see. I got him

boardin’ wit’ a nice family on East Broadway. I was just comin’ from

there, when I seen you. Three dollars a week, I pay for him. That’s what

keeps me hustlin’. . . . Besides his clo’es and all. . . .”

The lady came partly out of her corner. She was interested. “Why . . .”

she said. “What stories one hears! . . . I don’t know. . . . It seems

terrible. . . . Huh? Have you no father and mother?”

“Dead, ma’am,” said Joe, sadly. “My old man, he was killed in a boiler

explosion; and me mutter, she just wasted away, like, after.”

“Oh, dear!” she said. “And the whole burden fell on you! . . . Huh?

. . . You poor boy!”

“Oh, I don’t mind, ma’am,” said Joe quickly. “I’m a bugger for

work. . . . He’s a real cute little feller. . . .”

“How old?”

“Nine.”

“What’s his name?”

“Malcolm, ’m.”

There was no lack of conversation during the rest of the drive.

When they drew up at the address given, Joe perceived to his

satisfaction that it was a fine neighborhood; quiet and genteel. Number

Nineteen was one of three houses in a row; smaller than their neighbors,

but having a neat, choice look. The red bricks were set off with a white

wood trim; there were elegant lace curtains in the windows.

Between them Joe and the cabman helped the lady up the steps. The outer

door of the house was closed. In response to their ring, it was

presently opened by another little lady, very like the first, but having

a more sensible look. Joe was relieved; a man might have been difficult

to deal with.

The lady at the door gasped in dismay. Joe’s lady pretended to make out

that it was nothing at all, but all the time she was letting on that she

was real bad off. This one had such a funny way of talking. She couldn’t

say anything right through, but always run out of breath in the middle,

and fetched a little gasp. Huh? Very often she ended up with something

quite different from the beginning. An Irish maid came, and all three

talked at once, or made clucking noises. A houseful of women; what luck!

thought Joe.

The sister and the maid received the sufferer from the hands of Joe and

the cabman. To the cabman Joe said out of the corner of his mouth:

“You’ve got your pay; cheese it!” The man went down the steps. Joe

himself insinuated his body inside the door, and closed it. He made

himself inconspicuous in the dark vestibule. The two women were making

their way towards the stairs, supporting the sufferer between them.

Intent upon her, they paid no attention to Joe.

The strong servant picked up her mistress bodily, and started up the

stairs. The other lady followed with her arms outstretched as if she

expected them to fall over backwards, and clucking all the way. Joe

entered the house, softly closing the inner door, and eagerly looked

around him. His first feeling was one of disappointment; the carpet was

worn. Still . . . the place was fixed up real nice; nothing grand, of

course.

The gas was burning inside a fancy red lantern; there was a funny carved

oak hat-stand with brass hooks; and on the other side of it a table with

a silver plate on it, full of cards with people’s names on them. Joe

took note of how the stair carpet was fastened down by a brass rail

running across each step. That was a neat rig, now. The door into the

parlor at his right hand, was open, but that room was dark. However,

enough light came in from the street to show him that it was a real nice

room, crowded with pretty fixings.

Hearing a stir overhead, Joe hastily smoothed his hair down with his

hands, and sat down in the hall with a Christly expression. The sister

of the hurt lady came tripping down the stairs at a great rate. She had

a worried look; evidently it had just occurred to her that Joe had not

been disposed of. She saw him and stopped on the stairs. “Oh!” she said.

She was a little older than her sister, yet somehow had a fresher look.

But not a woman who was accustomed to dealing with men. She had a smooth

oval face, and pretty sloping shoulders like a girl.

“I brought her home,” said Joe, modestly, to help her out.

“Oh, yes! Of course!” she said. “Just wait a moment till I fetch my

purse.”

“No, lady, no,” said Joe. “I don’t want nottin’ off yeh. I was just

waitin’ to hear if your sister was bad hurted. I t’ought maybe I could

run for the doctor.”

“Oh!” said the lady. She came slowly down the rest of the stairs. She

was looking at Joe with little wrinkles in her forehead. Joe could read

her thoughts. He had put her in the wrong by refusing the tip she had

offered him. Now she didn’t know what to do with him. She didn’t like

him, but she felt that she ought to like such a true-hearted lad as he

was making out to be. Well, Joe didn’t care whether she liked him or

not, so he could make her do what he wanted.

“Shall I go for the doctor?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” she said, recollecting herself. “It is not serious. It has

happened before, and I know just what to do.”

“Then I’ll be stepping,” said Joe. He lingered, allowing his glance to

travel wistfully around the pleasant interior.

“I’m sure we both thank you,” said the lady uneasily. “I wish. . . .”

Joe looked up encouragingly, but she didn’t go on.

“We both thank you very much indeed!”

“Don’t mention it, ma’am,” said Joe. “. . . My name is Joseph Kaplan,”

he added suggestively, and lingered still.

“Yes?” she said with a strained smile.

She became very uncomfortable, but Joe couldn’t get her over the

sticking point. There was nothing more he could do without showing his

hand. He thought: Oh, well, I can come back to ask how the other one is

getting on. He said softly:

“Good-night, lady,” and with a wistful glance in her face, let himself

out of the door.

She was left standing in the hall looking unhappy. As soon as he was

gone, she could not understand how she could have shown such a lack of

proper feeling toward that poor boy. She wanted to call him back.

V

“The sight of so much sin and suffering . . .” said the lady with the

sprained ankle. “Hum; there were fleas in that cab. . . . I don’t know;

they don’t seem to realize! . . . Huh? And the most of it falls on the

innocent!”

“If they was more like you we’d be a hull lot better off,” said Joe.

“Not like me, Joe, no! . . . That horse ought to have been reported to

the S.P.C.A. Oh, dear! There are so many things one ought to . . . Joe,

you should say: ‘If there were more’—if you don’t mind my telling

you. . . . Huh? . . .”

“No’m. I’m crazy to learn. Ain’t had no chances. If there were more like

you. . . .”

“No, Joe! . . . I’m sure it had some terrible disease . . . I’m but a

poor weak vessel! One night a week . . . Huh? The air is so bad! . . .

Yes; if I was made of sterner stuff I would give up everything I possess

and . . . I don’t know. . . .”

“If you gave away ev’yt’ing, ’m, you wouldn’t have nottin’ to give to

the poor.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in . . . Huh? You must practice your th’s. Like

this: ‘Everything; nothing.’ Huh? . . . It is yourself that you must

give. . . . They don’t seem to appreciate. . . .”

They were sitting in the parlor of the little house on West Eleventh

street—only they called it drawing-room, Joe had learned. The little

lady was seated on a sofa by the window, with her injured foot on a

stool before her; a silk scarf thrown over her ankle. It was after five

on Sunday afternoon, and the servant had just lighted a tall lamp which

stood beside the old-fashioned piano at the back of the room. The lamp

had a very large shade made of yellow crinkled paper, which spread an

agreeable glow around. It was like a play.

Joe, his hair well slicked down, had the air of being established in the

house, and he knew it. He kept his eyes lowered so as not to betray his

satisfaction. Handling the old maid was as easy as eating pie. She could

take any amount of soft sawder. On a stand beside the sofa was a vase

containing three damaged pink roses, wired to their stems. Every now and

then she glanced at them with a softened look. The other sister was in

and out of the room. The one was called Miss May Gittings; the other,

Mrs. Fanny Boardman.

Miss Gittings continued, her hazy grey eyes shining on something far

away: “Sympathy; understanding; encouragement; that is the message I try

to . . . Huh? And plain sewing . . . oh, dear! they seem to have no

womanly feeling for the needle. . . . The worst of misfortune is, it

breeds a callous spirit. . . . I don’t know. . . . When they jeer at me

I tell myself it is but the anguish of their souls peeping out. Every

Thursday I find it harder and harder to work myself up to . . . Ah, yes!

. . . Poor dear girls. . . . Huh? . . .”

“If I was there, I’d learn them!” said Joe doubling his fist.

“Oh, Joe! you wouldn’t hit a girl . . . !”

“Of course I wouldn’t _hit_ them,” he said quickly. “But I’d give ’em a

good layin’ out.”

“No, you can’t do away with poverty!” said Miss Gittings. “There’s one

or two of them _would_ be the better for a good whipping. . . . Huh?

. . . The great thing is to teach the poor to be more spiritual-minded.

. . . They chew gum with their mouths open. They know it annoys

me. . . . Huh? . . . So they can trample on the ills of the flesh. We

are all equal sharers in the things of the spirit. . . . And I know some

of them smoke cigarettes. . . . Huh?”

“You talk beautiful,” murmured Joe.

“I can talk to you. You’re the first poor person that ever understood

me. . . . Huh? . . . You’re only a boy, but you’ve been through the

fire. . . . You should say: ‘Talk beautifully’. . . . And your spirit is

refined like. . . . Huh? . . . whatever shortcomings your exterior . . .

but that’s not your fault. . . .”

* * * * *

Mrs. Boardman was a more practical-minded person than her sister—but

not much more. She had an easy-going sensible look. She had been married

only three months, and that twenty years ago, Joe had learned, but the

experience, brief as it was, apparently enabled her to keep her feet on

the ground, while the sister, who had never known a man, pursued her

batlike flights through the air. But a funny thing was, as Joe was quick

to see, the batty one was the leading spirit of the two. Apparently

there was more force in her notions than in the other’s commonsense.

Mrs. Boardman followed contentedly wherever Miss Gittings led.

Therefore, if you made yourself solid with the old maid, you would be

all right with the widow.

“Don’t you spend your Sunday afternoons with Everard, Joe?” asked Miss

Gittings. “You might bring . . . Huh? . . . Is he a very destructive

child?”

“No ’m. You mean Malcolm. I t’ought I hadn’t oughta keep him outa Sunday

School, like.”

“You mustn’t run your words together. . . . Of course; quite

right. . . . Say that sentence again, slowly.”

Joe obeyed very willingly. This was useful.

“Don’t you go to Sunday School, Joe?” asked Mrs. Boardman.

“I’ll tell you the troot . . . truth, ’m, I ain’t got the face. I’m so

ignorant, they’d put me amongst the littlest kids.”

“But if Malcolm is only nine, you must have been at least six or seven

when your mother died. Didn’t she give you any religious instruction?”

“Yes’m,” said Joe vaguely. “. . . She was a good woman.”

“Do you remember her clearly?”

“Yes’m, I kin see her now!”

Miss Gittings exchanged a look with her sister. “But Fanny, that is

psychic!” she said, opening her eyes.

Joe had no idea what the funny-sounding word meant. Evidently it was a

word which excited them. He waited with stretched ears for some clue to

its meaning.

“Do you mean that merely in a manner of speaking,” asked Mrs. Boardman

of Joe; “or do you mean you can actually see her as if she were a living

person?”

Joe had no doubt of the answer required to this question. “I kin see her

just as plain as I see you ’m.” He closed his eyes, and went on: “She

was a tall woman and she gen’ally wore a grey dress, real full in the

skirt. She had real black hair, parted in the middle, and brushed down

flat, and she wore a little gold cross hangin’ round her neck, and a

gold ring on her finger. We wasn’t so poor then.”

“An authentic spirit portrait. . . . Huh? . . .” murmured Miss Gittings

to her sister. “Tell me,” she asked Joe in some excitement, “under what

circumstances does she usually . . . Huh? . . . how? when? where?”

“Oh, she comes most any time,” said Joe, “but gen’ally at night. She

shows brighter in the dark, seems like.”

“What a spirit touch!” murmured the sisters.

“She most allus comes when I’m feelin’ bad,” Joe went on. “When I ain’t

had no supper; or when I gotta sleep on a park bench. Then I see her

beside me, bendin’ over. She puts her hand on my wrist. . . .”

“Can you _feel_ her hand?” demanded Miss Gittings breathlessly. “This is

important. . . . Huh?”

“Surest thing you know ’m! Just like this!” Joe grasped his own wrist.

“How truly remarkable!”

“And she says: ‘Fight the good fight, Joe!’ Or: ‘Stick it out, son; your

mutter is watchin’ you.’ Or somepin like that. Then I feel all right

again.”

“A genuine psychic!” murmured Miss Gittings breathlessly. “. . . Huh?

. . . This rude, uninstructed . . . The veriest sceptic must be . . .

Oh, sister! . . . Tell us more,” she said to Joe, “my sister and I are

extremely interested in such phenomena. We ourselves . . . go on! go

on!”

By this time, of course, Joe had grasped the sense of the funny-sounding

word. Spirits! Well, he could feed ’em as much as they’d take. “Wuncet,”

he resumed solemnly, “things was real bad with me. Malcolm was sick, and

had to have the doctor, and the folks he lives with was after me for the

two dollars to pay him; and I didn’t have it; and I didn’t dast go to

see how he was, wit’out it; and I was near crazy, you bet! And I

happened to be goin’ troo Rivington street where the pushcart market is,

and they was all kinds of things on the pushcarts that a feller could

pick up; hats and fur-pieces and women’s jackets and all; and I made up

my mind to snitch a baby’s jacket for Malcolm’s sake. . . .”

“But what could you have done with that?”

“Oh, there’s places you kin sell them things. There’s plenty bad fellers

on the East Side makes a business of it, and they’re allus askin’ yeh to

go in wit’ ’em. But I don’t have no truck wit’ ’em.”

“Go on!” said both sisters together.

“Well, while I was standin’ there waitin’ for the man to turn his back

so’s I could prig the jacket, all of a sudden I seen me mutter beside

me. She didn’t say nottin’ that time, but she looked real bad. She just

took aholt of me and pulled me away from the pushcart. She pulled me

around the corner into Ridge street, and down the hill to the church

there, and inside the church. It was all dark awmost, except the candles

on the altar. And she took holy water, and put it on me—honest, I could

feel the very drops! and she made me kneel down beside her, and she

prayed to God! to make me a good feller, and keep me from sin. And say,

there was all a faint sort of light around her head, like there was a

candle behind her head, only there wasn’t no candle. . . .”

Mrs. Boardman glanced at her sister a little dubiously, and Joe

perceived that he was laying it on too thick. You fool! he said to

himself, why can’t you leave a thing lay, when it’s doin’ well.

However, he had Miss Gittings locoed with the story. The big grey eyes

were full of wonder like a child’s. “Go on!” she said. . . . “Huh?”

“Well, when I looked again, she was gone,” said Joe. “But I felt all

light, like, inside. I come out of the church, and went right to see the

doctor, and when I told him I hadn’t no money, he said sure, he’d go see

the kid, as often as would be necessary, and I could pay him when I

earned it.”

“Fanny,” said Miss Gittings impressively, “we must report this

extraordinary case to the circle. . . . Huh? . . . Let scoff who will!

. . . We can produce the boy. . . .”

“Yes, sister.”

The front door opened and closed, and a slender shadow fell in the hall.

Joe was instantly all attention. Another member to this household! The

whole problem was altered.

“Wilfred, come here,” said Miss Gittings.

No response.

“Wilfred!” she repeated, raising her voice a little.

A boy of Joe’s own age came into the room with rather a sullen air; on

the defensive. Joe perceived that it was that same white-faced

boy. . . . God! _that_ kid! All the ground was cut from under his feet.

For an instant he thought of flight.

But only for an instant. It steadied him to perceive that the kid was a

lot worse upset by the meeting than he was. The kid’s eyes were fixed

and crazy, like. He was looking at Joe as if he saw a headless ghost

rising out of the grave. It almost made Joe laugh. What the hell! he

said to himself; the kid wouldn’t dare to name anything to the women.

And anyhow, he didn’t see nothing but what his own dirty mind

imagined. . . . He’s no better than me himself. I can handle him, too.

“This is my nephew, Wilfred Pell,” said Miss Gittings, pleasantly.

“Please to meet yeh,” said Joe affably.

The frantic look in the kid’s eyes warned Joe not to put out his hand.

He _might_ explode.

* * * * *

Wilfred had been down to Staten Island. The Aunts approved of these

Sunday excursions. For once they were of a mind with Wilfred about

something. To-day he had discovered a lovely spot called Willow Brook,

which in its wild beauty and solitude might have been a thousand miles

from New York, instead of actually within the city limits. It had been a

good day.

Upon entering the house, his heart sank, recognizing from the tones of

his Aunt’s voice that there were strangers in the drawing-room. One

could not get past the open door without being seen. And he did want to

get to his own room to think. He debated sneaking out again, and

entering by the basement, but his Aunt called him in her company voice.

The second time she called, he was obliged to enter the room.

He was astonished to see a boy of his own age, sitting with his back to

the windows. He examined him with eager curiosity. When the boy arose

and came towards him, Wilfred’s heart failed him. That boy of the East

Side!—cleaner now, and better dressed, but the same boy! Wilfred turned

sick inside. This was a hallucination, of course; that wicked, bold,

long-nosed face had haunted him, these past weeks. This was the Tempter;

the destroyer of his peace! Well, it was all over then; this was the

end; he was done for!

Then his Aunt May introduced them to each other in her silly-sounding

voice, and Wilfred realized that Joe was no apparition. He looked at him

in helpless confusion. By what trick of fate had he come to be sitting

in the drawing-room of the prim Aunts as if he belonged there? The

explanation when it came was natural enough:

“This is the boy who brought me home when I sprained my ankle on

Thursday night.”

Wilfred’s heart sank lower still; for this looked like the direct

interposition of Fate or whatever Power there was, on the side of the

enemy. If this boy had actually gained a footing in his own home, how

could he, Wilfred, hope to withstand him, and all that he represented?

. . . He didn’t want to withstand him. He was lost. After the first

glance, the black-haired boy avoided looking at Wilfred. He was as

demure as a cat. He knew his own power. Wilfred glanced at the roses

with a painful sneer. Faded ones, of course, because they were more

pathetic.

An awkward constraint fell upon the quartette. Aunt May, having

introduced the two boys with as much as to say: You two ought to be

friends, had become silent and fidgety. It must be apparent now, even to

her fuzzy wits, that we couldn’t be friends, thought Wilfred. There was

some desultory conversation between Joe and Aunt Fanny. The black-haired

boy was exercising a horrible fascination over Wilfred. Fairly well

dressed now, Wilfred perceived how good-looking he was. A healthy, pink

color showed in the bold, thin profile; the whole head expressed a power

of cynical hardihood. This boy doesn’t care _what_ he does! thought

Wilfred. In body, too, Joe’s shoulders were wider than Wilfred’s, and

under the shoddy pants the line of a trim thigh was revealed. Joe’s

comeliness sickened Wilfred. He has every advantage of me! he thought

despairingly.

As from a distance, Wilfred heard his Aunt May saying to him in the

manner of a rebuke: “Joseph has been telling us about himself. He has

had a hard life. . . . I don’t know. . . . It is very interesting to

hear. . . . Huh?”

“Wilfred has been so sheltered!” put in Aunt Fanny.

Wilfred listened woodenly. A screech of laughter sounded through him. Oh

my Lord! they are on the way to make a hero of Joe!

“Very interesting. . . .” Aunt May repeated vaguely. “. . . Huh?” The

presence of Wilfred forced her to look at Joe anew, and to ask herself

what was to come of his being in the house. An unfortunate boy, and not

to be blamed in any way; still . . . a great boy like that . . . almost

a man . . .

An uncomfortable situation. Joe was master of it. He stood up, saying

easily:

“I gotta go now. Malcolm’ll be lookin’ for me.”

A feeling of relief pervaded the other three. Joe, with eyes modestly

cast down, waited for the ladies to invite him to call again. They felt

strongly the suggestion to do so, but with Wilfred standing there,

resisted it; and were glad that they had resisted it as soon as Joe was

out. But all three inmates of the house knew by instinct that they had

not seen the last of Joe. The sisters looked at each other with eyes

eloquent of relief. Nevertheless, Aunt May said:

“A deserving boy, sister. . . . Huh? . . . We must do something for

him.”

And Aunt Fanny answered: “Yes; and gifted with a strange power, May.”

It fell to Wilfred’s part to show Joe out of the front door. When they

got out in the hall Wilfred’s heart was pounding, and he had a

difficulty in getting his breath. Not for anything would he have looked

at Joe; he knew without looking, how Joe’s hard, bright, all-knowing

eyes were fixed on his face; and Joe’s thin protuberant upper lip was

flattened in a zestful grin. As Wilfred stood holding the door open, Joe

came so close to him that he could feel the warmth of his body, and

stood there, trying to make Wilfred look at him. But Wilfred would not.

“Goin’ to take a walk to-night?” Joe murmured.

Wilfred, nearly suffocated by the beating of his heart, silently shook

his head.

“Well . . . any time you feel like it . . . come on down. You’ll find me

somewheres around those corners. . . . I’ll show you ’round.”

Joe ran down the steps thinking: Funny look that kid’s got. But I got

him going. Wonder why he takes it so hard? . . . Oh, to hell with them;

the whole three of them is easy! I can get what I want out of

them. . . .

Wilfred closed the door, and leaned his forehead against the ornamental

glass pane. It had a sort of Gothic arch cut in the glass, from which

depended a number of meaningless tails, each winding up in a curlicue.

Wilfred, nauseated, was thinking:

“Any time . . . any time . . . that means I’ll have to fight it every

night. . . . Wouldn’t it be better to give in at once, and save all

that? . . . Disgust might cure me. . . .”

From the drawing-room Aunt May called him.